


like cherry blossoms in spring

by ceeiswriting



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Schofield is not married, musings about loss, yes I am posting this two years after I wrote it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:47:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29316573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceeiswriting/pseuds/ceeiswriting
Summary: The war has made him weary. Schofield fought, he bled, he killed. It became a new reality and it clung to him, it dug its claws into him, granting him no reprieve. It’s been months and he’s still not free of it, of the dreams and the memories, filled with screams and anguish and blood.
Relationships: Tom Blake & William Schofield
Kudos: 5





	like cherry blossoms in spring

**Author's Note:**

> hey, so for some reason you made it here! thank you for deciding to read this. it's basically me just being emo about blake and schofield. i miss them.
> 
> title is based on the song cherry blossoms by night beds!
> 
> ps: English isn't my first language so I apologize for the mistakes :)

Schofield thinks of Blake in Spring.

He has been back in England for a couple of months now after the fucking  _ Krauts _ finally surrendered, ultimately giving up on a war that should not have even lasted that long in the first place. The war that took so much from him. It took and took and took until it ended up taking a  _ part _ of him as Blake laid bleeding next to him, warm blood seeping over their intertwined hands. 

He’d never quite managed to get rid of the feeling completely. It stayed with him, so stubbornly - the warmth of Blake’s blood on his hands, under his skin, in his bloodstream. Strangely enough, it reminds Schofield of a blood oath, a silent promise that sealed their fates together. He promised Blake so much; to complete the mission, to find his brother, to write to his mother -

And he did. 

Schofield did everything he promised Blake he would. He delivered the message, watched grief hit Joseph with its full, violent force and he wrote to Mrs. Blake, telling her about her son’s bravery. 

Things got blurry after that. 

He received another medal - and refused to give it away this time. Instead, he held on to it. Now, it sits on the mantle of the fireplace, gleaming in the soft light of the fire, an ever-present reminder of April 6th, 1917. Blake must’ve received a medal, too. Schofield is sure about that. He wonders sometimes if Blake’s family keeps the medal out in the open, proudly displaying it. Or if the truth is too painful for them. The truth that Blake’s life merely equated to a scrap of metal.

The war has made him weary. He fought, he bled, he killed. It became a new reality and it clung to him, it dug its claws into him, granting him no reprieve. It’s been months and he’s still not free of it, of the dreams and the memories, filled with screams and anguish and blood.  Schofield wakes early, after another one of those nights that end up with him gasping for air. The memories always come back to haunt him, making him feel like he’s suffocating under the weight of them. Schofield sits up, slowly, waiting for the world to stop spinning, the echo of his ragged breathing the only sound in his dark bedroom. 

He thinks of Blake in Spring when the cherry blossoms bloom and the scar on his hand aches with a strange pain. He might as well be imagining that. He’s heard of that condition before. Losing a limb and feeling like it’s still with you. The medics called it phantom pain.  Blake isn’t with him, either. He’s been gone for months. Yet, Schofield feels like he is. Maybe he’s losing his mind, maybe he isn't. Maybe that is just what grief is about. Missing someone so much that your brain decides to play tricks on you, trying to convince you that whoever you lost, they’re right next to you, just hidden away. 

There’s a slight chill in the air when Schofield steps outside, desperate to get some fresh air. After all, it’s the middle of March and the weather is still capricious like it can’t decide between letting go of the cold and finally embracing the warmth that’s typical for the changing seasons. Yet there it is, the cherry tree in the back of Schofield’s garden, blooming with bright white petals. It’s a sight. 

Schofield wishes they’d never fall. It would be a sign of change if they do. A reminder that time did not stop on that day in April 1917, no matter how hard or how many times he tried to convince himself that it did.

Back then, he didn’t have time to mourn because death had always been a part of the war - nothing special, and Blake had faded so quickly, had turned cold in Schofield’s arms. Schofield had loved him. It had been the truth back then and it will always be the truth. It crept up on him, under his skin, into his veins, and his blood. He will never be able to get rid of him now. 

Schofield doesn’t _want_ to.

He’d fought so much during the war that grew tired of it. The biggest war he’d fought was the one with himself. But in the end, he stopped fighting altogether. Schofield surrendered. He allowed those feelings to exist, allowing them to take root so deep inside of him, similar to how the roots of a tree connect themselves to the earth. Uprooting them would not make any sense, either. 

Schofield thinks of Blake in Spring when everything blooms and color returns to the world.

He sits down, leaning against the tree and looking at the scar on his hand. It had been a real mess to clean it once he’d gotten to the camp. Quite painful, too. It hadn’t been much of a surprise that it had gotten infected after Schofield quite literally put it into a dead German. How come that even in death, those people try to make one’s life as miserable as possible?

Sometimes, Schofield still can’t believe it. How stupid, good-hearted Blake still wanted to help the damn German.  _ And that got him killed _ , Schofield thinks to himself, absentmindedly tracing the scar on his hand. The phantom pain is still there, a dull ache that’s never really leaving him, even though the wound has long healed. He’s accepted the pain. Because it doesn’t matter how much pain or darkness or grief there is, there’s also light to counteract it. The rising sun reminds him of it daily. Finally, Schofield manages to take inhale deeply, letting go of some of the night’s tension.

The breeze that rolls through is gentle, almost like a gentle caress.

Schofield thinks of Blake in Spring. He thinks of his smile, his touches, of all the promises they made to each other but never got to keep. Schofield closes his eyes. He inhales the sweet scent of the cherry blossoms and lets the warmth of the morning sun seep through his body. It repels the chill of the night from his bones -

And just for a moment, it feels like Blake is right there with him, white petals falling around Schofield like fresh snow.

  
  



End file.
